


between the ribs

by eat_crow



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Frottage, Gen, Oral Sex, Vampire Sex, Victorian, blood letting but make it sexy, everybody's an olympic gold medalist in playing mind games, kind of a twist ending but you'll see it a mile off, voyeurism/exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:43:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27646346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eat_crow/pseuds/eat_crow
Summary: Merlin takes shelter from the rain in the home of Arthur and Guinevere, a mysterious and generous couple. The more time spent between them, the clearer their motives become, and the more Merlin loses sight of his own.When everyone is a wolf in sheep's clothing, it's impossible to say who's the one being hunted.
Relationships: Gwen/Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 50





	between the ribs

**Author's Note:**

> nothing like almost 12k of porn at lunchtime
> 
> this was uhhh supposed to be posted for halloween. then life happened. november has been a crazy year.
> 
> this is about 2/3 smut but it's not really pwp either. it's also not the happiest ending in the world cause it was meant to be a little darker for halloween.

The path is flooded. Watered down mud slides down grooves it eroded in the earth and splashes onto his trousers with every step. As he makes his way up the long driveway the rain soaks his hair, finds its way into the collar of his coat and drips between his shoulder blades, sinks its cold teeth into his bones. He holds his bag to his chest and carries on.

He treks a mile in near pitch before the mansion starts to loom over him. Three stories, a wrap around porch, ivy clawing its way up the columns, shrubbery that borders the gravel path to the front door. The clouds overhead, glowing from the full moon they hide, cast the home in a dark and dangerous shadow.

Despite the late hour, the glow of oil lamps wink at him from the windows.

He takes the steps one at a time. A sense of wrongness, of _other_ , settles on his nape and inflicts its dread into him. Music plays inside, a violin and piano in a duet as chilling as the rain above. He wants to turn around. He takes the heavy door knocker in his hand, an open mouthed dragon, and knocks on the door.

The violin stutters to a stop. The piano plays a stilted chord and plays no more. There is a clatter, a long pause, and the door creaks open.

A pair stand before him, a tall light skinned man and a shorter dark skinned woman, both unfairly, inhumanly attractive. The woman peeks around the door and takes him in with roving brown eyes as the man holds it open. His shirt is of a thin linen, and the thin fabric betrays his silhouette from the light behind. She wears a nightdress with a plunging neckline and no more.

“Who are you?” The man asks, cutting off the long explanation he practiced on his way up. “What business have you here?”

“Oh, be kind,” the woman scolds. “He must have gotten lost. Are you cold, my love?” She asks. His smile is sheepish as he pushes his wet hair from his eyes.

“Freezing,” he admits. The woman ducks beneath the man’s arm and reaches out for him.

“Come, now. You’ll catch your death.” She takes him by the arm and urges him forward into their home. Her knuckles brush his neck as she straightens his collar, almost as if checking for a pulse. “My name is Guinevere,” she says, “though most people call me Gwen.”

“I'm Merlin,” he answers.

He allows himself to be pulled into their entrance hall. The walls are covered in a rich emerald wallpaper, and ornate carved frames of paintings line the walls. As Merlin eyes the decorations it occurs to him there are no pictures, not of themselves and not of anyone else. There are no mirrors to speak of. The dark hardwood creaks under his feet but is silent when the pair passes over. He removes his shoes by the door to not track mud onto their persian rugs.

The man closes the door behind them and latches it. He leans his back against the wood, his hand still on the doorknob behind him. He watches Merlin with an intensity that makes something carnal in him tense. 

"I suppose it would be too much to hope you have a phone, all the way out here?"

“I’m afraid so,” Gwen says, though the man quirks an eyebrow as though he meant to say something different. She ignores Merlin's protests and busies herself with pulling his coat from his shoulders. She hands it to the man and he hangs it to dry on the rack. Merlin is left in his shirt, plastered to his body with the rain and feeling much like one of the drowned rats that scurried underfoot in London. Gwen scrapes her too white teeth over her lower lip as she looks him over with her eyes so intent they may as well be dazed, her fingers just brushing his side before they withdraw as if he’s burned her. She clears her throat and smiles, gentle and sweet. “But you’re welcome to stay for the night, until this storm lets up.”

“I couldn’t intrude,” he says.

“It's a welcome company,” Gwen says, and takes a step forward. Her hand hovers over his stomach, just above his navel, but her eyes are on the man. “In fact, I was just telling Arthur that I could go for a drink.”

  
  


Despite the numerous rooms the home is empty, no servants bustling about to attend and make noise. It's odd, and Merlin can't help but remark that upkeep must be quite a task. Gwen agrees, but admits that cleaning and love making are the two best ways to pass ample time. Arthur ducks his head and kisses her throat when she says as such, and she laughs. Merlin keeps his eyes forward.

Gwen passes the candle she’s holding to Arthur when they reach the end of a hallway capped with a stained glass window that Merlin cannot discern in the dim. She opens a door and steps aside to let him inside first. It’s a master bedroom with a four poster bed, a desk, and a vanity. There’s a door to the right that leads to a bathroom.

“This is where you’ll sleep,” she says. She brushes her hand over the purple sheets to check for dust, and is satisfied with what she sees.

“Thank you,” he says. “I am… deeply grateful for your courtesy.” The couple glance to each other and then look back to Merlin.

“Don’t thank us just yet,” Gwen says. A shiver skitters down his spine.

Arthur directs him to the bathroom with a hand on his elbow, and Merlin’s heart beats against the thumb pressed into the crook of his arm. 

“The left is hot, the right is cold,” Arthur tells him, gesturing to the gold footed ceramic tub. He releases Merlin’s arm and opens a mahogany cupboard to retrieve a perfectly bleached white towel. He throws it at Merlin’s head. Merlin decides he likes Guinevere much more. “Do you have a change of clothing in--” He reaches for Merlin’s bag, thrown haphazardly on a wooden chair, and pauses when Merlin steps in front of him.

“I do,” Merlin says quickly. He touches the flap of his bag, a soft and well worn leather. “Apologies,” he says, “but my belongings are… private. I’d like to keep it as such.”

“Of course,” Arthur says. He looks Merlin up and down, but if there’s a comment to be made it is left unspoken. His knuckles brush feather-light against Merlin's hip and across his belly as he passes. Merlin’s breath catches. He sways. Arthur dares to wink when he and Gwen take their leave.

Merlin makes himself a bath of half hot and half cold, knowing the chill in his skin will make it deceptively warmer. He peels off his clothes and sets them to dry over the radiator.

Merlin does not lower his guard as he sinks into the bath. He stays on high alert as his eyelids flutter and the heat seeps into his joints. His attention is razor focused as he dips below the water to let the warmth blanket his scalp.

  
  


The couple is already drinking when he makes his way to the downstairs parlor. They sit together at the grand piano by the fireplace and speak in hushed tones. Two glasses sit on the piano, one filled and one not. Another rests in Guinevere's hand. Arthur plays melodic little fills, coming from nowhere and going just the same. Gwen's hand trails up and down his back underneath his shirt.

He makes his presence known with a cleared throat. They turn their heads to him.

"Already looking better," Gwen says with a kind smile, ever the dutiful host as she fills the last empty glass and hands it over. Merlin hesitates. His hand jerks when he reaches for it. "Drink up," she says, "it'll liven up your blood." Her smile twitches into something almost dangerous when Arthur swallows a laugh and trills on the keys. She watches him take a sip from behind the rim of her own glass, eyes half lidded and hazy as they follow the movement of his adam's apple.

"I hope you don't mind my asking," Arthur says, "but our estate is out of anyone's way, and we're rather unused to company. What brings you here?"

"I planned to visit my mother," he says. Tentatively, he leans his hip against the piano. When no complaint is aired, he lets it bear his weight. "I believe I took a wrong turn, somewhere."

"The nearest town is nearly ten miles," Arthur says. Merlin looks into his glass and swirls the liquid within. He hadn't walked those ten miles, or even half that distance. He clears his throat.

"The road to your estate and the road to my mother's home are quite similar. By the time I realized my mistake, it was far too late to turn back. I'd only hoped to send word."

"She must be worried," Gwen says. Her eyebrows pull upward as she looks to Arthur. She touches a sympathetic hand to her chest, just over her heart. Merlin's eyes are drawn to where her middle finger slips just so underneath the neckline of her night dress. 

"I'm sure she'll understand. I'm… well, I'm directionally challenged." He tries a smile and takes another sip. "She likely expects me to be late anyhow, with how I'm always getting lost."

"Well," Gwen says, "we'll do our best to return you in good health." Her hand reaches up to cup his cheek in tender affection. Her fingers slip down his neck on their way to his shoulder and the intensity of their first meeting is back once more with a barely present pressure on his pulse. She swallows, eyes fixed on his throat. She smiles. "Cheers." She takes a large sip and distances herself.

Merlin hides his trepidation behind laughter and hearty sips of wine. He knows he should slow, but the dry bite of tannins on his tongue soothes his nerves. He sinks into a plush chair, his body warm and loose, his glass resting on his thigh with barely so much as a well of burgundy left at the bottom.

Gwen and Arthur settle, too, leaning into each other and sharing knowing looks through their eyelashes and flickering grins. The dim light, the late hour, and the alcohol make it a fuzzy sight when Gwen tilts her head to grant Arthur a kiss. His lips are already parted for it. Merlin blinks lazily as Arthur takes her hip and pulls her into his lap with a playful growl, and she rests easy on his thighs, giggling all the way. She throws an arm over his shoulders, still holding her glass, and though the view is obscured the wet sound of open mouthed kisses fills the room. Merlin's attention is pulled to them, lost in them.

“Arthur,” Gwen laughs as she pushes her hand through his hair. She brushes her lips to Arthur's ear, but her voice is strong enough for Merlin to hear. “You know we have an audience."

“We’ll put on a show, then.” He pushes her nightdress halfway up her thigh. He noses down her neck and kisses her pulse. Gwen takes a handful of his hair and pulls his head back, his throat bared, his teeth glinting. She looks to Merlin, and her easy grin falls.

"He's drunk," she says, and lets go of Arthur's hair. Arthur's head bobs at the release. He turns. Merlin, unfazed, wiggles his fingers in a wave. He struggles to keep his eyes open for long.

"Nonsense, he's had a single glass." He looks Merlin up and down and sighs. "No accounting for lightweights, I suppose."

"Merlin, dear," Gwen says, her gentle tone not altogether vanished but lacking in sincerity, "I believe it's time for bed."

With his mind muddled it takes a moment for Merlin to answer with a tired, “I believe you may be right.” It takes another moment for him to realize that means _now._ He rises, not quite unsteady, uncertain perhaps, and says, "Right. Goodnight."

When he is out of sight, and all that can be seen into the room is the light that spills out and illuminates the hallway, there is a hushed exchange, _that didn’t go to plan, bloody lightweight, i was looking forward to that one, patience is a virtue my love,_ and the conversation disintegrates with a discordant slam of piano keys and a deep moan.

Merlin doesn't hang back to listen.

No longer than a minute, anyway.

  
  


The storm has not abated in the morning. In fact, it’s grown worse. The sky is so grey Merlin almost convinces himself he’s arisen hours before daybreak. The only evidence to suggest otherwise is the static patter of rain on the window and the clock on the wall. He fixes his bed, tucks the sheets and straightens the pillows. He brushes his teeth at the porcelain bathroom sink.

He stows away his toiletries in his bag and tugs a letter free from a secret pocket. The wax seal is already broken. He's read it a hundred times before.

He reads it one time more.

There's a sharp knock at the bedroom door before the knob starts to turn. He stuffs the letter into his bag, panics when he finds himself standing in the middle of his bathroom for no rhyme or reason, and rushes to the radiator to collect his clothes as if he were readying to pack.

"Merlin?" Comes Guinevere's voice from the bedroom. Merlin lets out a breath, plasters on an easy smile, and steps to the side to peek out of the bathroom.

"Yes?" Gwen glances to the shirt in his arms. He waves the sleeve at her. "Just packing," he says. "I don't want to overstay my welcome."

"About that," she says, and smooths her hand over her deep blue skirt. She tugs on the long sleeve of her shirt. The buttons are clasped up to her neck, unlike the nightdress that hung so low the night before. "We'd hate to send you out in this storm, you know."

"Oh, it's quite alright," he says. "I'm sure there's lodging in town."

"Still," she comes closer and her hands are on his biceps and he’s holding his breath and his fingers are curling around the clothing in his arms until they're tight fists, "I just want you to know we've extended our welcome until the rain ends. Be it later today, or even tomorrow."

"That's very kind," he says.

“Will you stay then?”

“If you insist.” She stands on her toes and kisses his cheek, just barely above his jaw. Her lips are soft and pliant and his knees are much weaker than he remembers.

“Wonderful.” She takes his clothes from him and sets them on the wooden chair, overtop his bag. She tugs him forward as she walks back a step. He opens his mouth to object, but she only looks to the door. “Come. I'll give you a tour."

She leads him out into the hallway. He glances at the stained glass window as he passes. The colorful mosaic depicts a woman in the arms of a skeleton, completely nude save the blue cloth thrown over her lap in artistic modesty. Her back is bowed, her head tilted to expose her throat, her face contorted in pain or, upon second glance, perhaps ecstasy. The skeleton has one hand splayed over her stomach and one hand intertwined with hers. It's biting her neck. Bright red blood coats the skeleton's teeth and drips down her neck and bare chest.

Guinevere clears her throat. Merlin jerks. With a flush of heat that moves in a wave from his ears down to his chest he realizes he's been staring for some time.

"Do you like art, Merlin?" She asks, with a twinkle in her eye that betrays the innocuous question. Merlin toys with the button at his collar.

"Doesn't everyone?" Is the answer, croaked through a sheepish smile. Gwen hums.

"We have plenty of commissioned pieces, if you'd like to… admire them," she says as she starts to walk down the hallway. Merlin chitters a little laugh, but says no more. She remarks on rooms as they pass them. Some are bedrooms, some are lounges. One, which Guinevere lets him look inside, is under construction to become a planetarium. They walk down the stairs in a silence that should be comfortable but instead tightens Merlin’s chest like he’s being stalked by some hulking, powerful creature, breathing iron down the back of his neck. Playing with him.

“I hope you’ll allow me to boast, but we have quite an impressive library. We even had to break down a wall to accommodate our collection some years ago,” she says as she ushers him into yet another door.

It is _very_ impressive. It surpasses every private library he’s ever been in, and comes close to some of the more extravagant public libraries in the city. Rows of tall bookshelves fill the entire room. They span from the ceiling to the floor, and almost every shelf is filled with volumes. There’s a sitting area by the door with chairs, a lounge, and a fireplace. Arthur sits in one of those chairs, slumped with his leg hooked over the arm, his brow furrowed as he reads a thick green novel. He glances up at them when they enter, his gaze lingering only long enough to make Merlin squirm before he returns to his studies.

“We have books in every language you can think of,” Gwen tells him as they walk down the rows. “English, French, Latin, Russian, Mandarin. Lately Arthur has taken it upon himself to read _the Iliad_ in the original Greek.”

“He speaks Greek?”

Guinevere snorts.

“He thinks he does.”

“I heard that!” Arthur calls from the front of the room. Merlin can’t help but join when Gwen breaks into laughter.

“You’re welcome to read anything we have to offer, nothing is off limits. Read and explore to your heart’s content.” 

“You’re too kind,” Merlin says. He touches his fingers to the spine of _Frankenstein - le Prométhée moderne._ Gwen dismisses it with a wave of her hand.

“Think nothing of it. Boredom is a fate worse than death, I believe.”

“Some deaths, perhaps,” Merlin quips, looking at her from the corner of his eye, and her lips quirk upwards in a question she does not ask. Merlin makes no move to elaborate.

“I have some duties to attend to about the house,” she says finally, and tucks her hair behind her ear, "but you’re welcome to stay here. Lunch will be served at noon.” She takes his wrist and squeezes.

Left to his own devices Merlin sinks into himself with a sigh. He drops his head into his hands and pushes his fingers into his hair to steel himself. He grips his hair hard. He counts to ten. He lets go.

He rubs his nose with the heel of his thumb. May as well look about, while he's here. He ventures deeper into the library. The system they organize with is confusing, neither alphabetical nor by genre. The texts are older and less used the further back he walks.

Merlin takes his chances on one of the older books, its binding in leather. Its front and back are clean from being sandwiched between two other volumes, but the top of the pages are yellowed from the sunlight and kick up dust when he opens the cover. The spine creaks. The inside cover reads,

_Cupido et Psyche_

Underneath, in Latin, is an inscription.

_A centum annis transierunt. Ad centum amplius._

_Tua, Arthur._

Merlin's understanding of Latin is uncertain at best, but even he knows what _centum annis_ means. He wonders how long ago it was written. He flips through the stiff pages. The text is printed, not written by hand, which gives him a cap on its age but is otherwise useless. He places it back where he found it. The marks from his fingers on the spine stand out in the row of dusty covers.

He's spent enough time fooling around. He needs to do something soon. The quiet of mid-morning is the perfect time to make his move, all he needs is his bag.

Merlin hurries from the library. He plans to say something in parting to Arthur, but there's nothing to show for him save his book left open-faced and upside down on the arm of his chair. He chews his lip. Not knowing where Arthur is will make things difficult, but not impossible.

He passes doors both opened and closed on his way back to his room. Some rooms, like the parlors, have no doors at all.

Walking past such a room is where he finds Arthur once more, his head between Guinevere's legs.

Merlin's step falters. Gwen is laid on her back on a low table, and he kneels before her. Her skirts are hitched up to her waist and her buttons are undone down to her corset. Deep purple marks mar her collarbones and chest. She has one hand in Arthur's hair, keeping him in place as she cants her hips against his mouth. Her head is thrown back, her eyebrows drawn together, her eyelids fluttering, light moans falling from her parted lips. She's not incredibly loud, doesn't thrash and scream, and Merlin dreads how much more painfully erotic the intimacy of it makes the affair.

Gwen opens her eyes just long enough to make eye contact with him.

Instead of embarrassment, or attempting to cover herself, Gwen's legs spread even further, a low moan stretched from her throat. Her hand tugs at Arthur's hair and he in turn looks up. His ministrations never stutter as his cold blue eyes meet Merlin's.

A heavy weight is building between his legs. He should move away from this. He wills himself to gain sense through discomfort, to be so much as perturbed, but he's grounded in place with his trousers getting tighter by the second. Gwen groans, and his eyes fall shut as he puts all his energy into not rutting into the air. It helps little, not to see. He can still hear perfectly fine, Gwen's breathy whines and the slick noise of Arthur's mouth or fingers or both moving inside her at a steadily increasing pace.

He watches through hooded eyes as Gwen bites her lips together. Her back bows, her hips rut forward, and she finds her release with a thinly gasped, " _Merlin,_ " and someone's _moaning_ and oh, Lord, it's him.

He doesn't know what to do. He flees.

He doesn't make it very far. He's barely inside his room, the door shut but unlocked, when he's unbuttoning his trousers and taking himself in hand. He's hard already, his tip wet and slick, and his mind is so rampant with his need he can't find the will to be discontented with himself. 

He pleasures himself with quick, desperate strokes. He tilts his head back against the door as he fucks his hand. He twists his wrist and gives a light squeeze and his breath is strangled in his throat when he comes, jaw dropped and eyes squeezed closed.

As he spends over his fingers, his hips jerking with the first aftershock, he tries to piece together if he was imagining being the one with his mouth put to work or the one spread out upon the table.

  
  


He should skip the invitation for lunch. He should make himself scarce. He needs to do what he has to and leave, imminently.

He sits across Gwen and Arthur, his cheeks so warm he can't think, scraping his thumbnail against the metal edge of his fork over and over. He scrubbed his hands until they were raw and stinging, but they stare at him as if they can smell his arousal from across the table. A dark little part of him that's responsible for the twinge in his stomach wonders if they really can.

"Well, this is simply ridiculous," Gwen says suddenly. Both men look to her.

"Guinevere," Arthur says, drawn out and a little stern, and Gwen smooths out her skirt. The same skirt that was bunched up around her hips. Merlin bites his tongue.

"No, I'm not having silence at my dinner table," she says. She looks him in the eyes and clasps her hands over the table. "Merlin--" his hand tightens around his fork-- "please accept our apologies over what you saw this morning. Arthur and I, well, it's just us in this house. We're not used to requiring… privacy." She clears her throat. "I hope you will forgive us if you were made uncomfortable."

"Of course," Arthur says, and he's hiding his lips behind his glass but his eyes are crinkling in the corners, "you _were_ made uncomfortable?"

Merlin's eyebrow twitches. They're toying with him.

"All is forgiven," he says with a smile.

"Good," Gwen says, and reaches across to put her hand overtop his. The cutlery rattles when he kicks the table leg. They pretend like they don't notice.

"Let's eat," Arthur says, through an insufferably crooked grin.

Cruelty. Utter cruelty.

  
  


The storm carries well into the evening. Merlin sequesters himself in his room, sits himself in the corner of the bathroom on the complex geometric tiles and breathes and breathes and breathes and tries so, _so_ hard to stop thinking of Gwen's face twisted in pleasure and wondering what Arthur's would look like and fantasizing that he would take it upon himself to find out, if you could be so kind. 

It's like bailing water out of a ship that's been capsized.

They invite him to the downstairs parlor for a drink. He would decline, he would, if he weren't so desperate to get out of his own head. Better to confront things head on. 

It doesn't pass his notice that they've forgone the wine and are dutifully sipping tea. He sits in the same chair as the night before. Arthur sits before the piano. Guinevere drifts to Merlin's chair and sits on the arm. She crosses her legs. The curve of her hip brushes his elbow.

"Play something romantic, darling," she says. Her arm rests on the back of the chair behind Merlin's head. He can smell her perfume. If he moves at all, he'll be pressing against her.

"Anything for you, lover," Arthur says with a sweetness denoting insincerity.

"A little less lip would be nice, too," she says, a smile in her voice. He looks over his shoulder with his tongue between his grinning teeth. He hammers on a few keys before he slips into _danseuses de delphes._

Gwen relaxes into the chair as the song goes on. She leans back, her ribs tucked to Merlin's side. Her arm comes down to rest on his shoulders. She plays with the collar of his shirt, straightening and tugging and straightening again. Then, tentatively, waiting to be stopped, her fingers dip underneath. Merlin sighs through his nose, his breath a shivering thing. 

She trails her finger up the column of muscle in his neck and back down again to his collarbone, across the hollow of his throat, just under the first button of his shirt. His head tips to the side. Her fingers eagerly explore what’s laid to her. The pads of her fingers drift to his pulse. They trace around the beat in a circle.

Her touch alone is more intense than any woman he's ever been with. He tries to be subtle in how his breath lightens, how the shift of his hips is more of a steady rock against the air. From her intake of breath, and the way her fingers press ever so firmly to his throat, he fails. Arthur begins playing _11 bagatelles_. This may be what heaven feels like - or a very, very deep level of hell.

"Merlin." Her hand cups his jaw and tilts his head back to look at her. He licks his lips as he takes her in, her pupils dilated with lust and hunger. She rubs her thumb over his stubble. "Would you like to kiss me?"

And what torture she should _ask_. That she should leave the decision to him. He could excuse himself if she pressed herself upon him and took his choice from him. He could lie to himself and say he never truly wanted her so badly it felt like he was going mad. But now, inches away, she doesn't dare come any closer without his express wish. If this is to continue, it will be by his request. 

He hates her the way a man dying of thirst hates a glass of water.

He breathes, " _Yes,_ " and takes a drink.

She lowers her head as he raises his. Their lips are already parted when they touch, and they waste no time to taste. It's a soft affair, heady and unrushed. Her mouth is like velvet against his tongue. He reaches up to the back of her neck and pulls her closer. She steadies herself with a hand on his shoulder. Her hair falls in a curtain around them.

Gwen takes a breath, her mouth open and still pressed so lightly to Merlin's, her lips soft and wet. The room is quiet, the music is no longer playing. Arthur must have noticed. He must be watching. A whimper plucks at the cords of his throat, unbidden, at the thought.

She pushes forward for another kiss. Her hand on his shoulder tightens its grip, and he lets out a sharp breath against her lips and pushes his hand into her hair to tug. She moans, quiet and deep in her throat, and he can’t help but do it once more just to be rewarded with the sound a second time. Gwen takes his free hand in hers and brings it to rest on her upper thigh. He doesn’t need to be guided to squeeze her. Her hips roll, her breath trembles, and Merlin’s desire is growing painful between his legs.

“I want you, Merlin,” she says, turning her head to let him press his lips to her chin, to her cheeks, down her jaw. Gwen holds her hand to the side of his neck. His heart thuds against her palm. “Do you want me, too?”

Hardly. He _needs_ her.

He nods his affirmative.

“You can take me to bed, if you’d like,” she says, all coy and horrid when she smiles. His brows furrow and his fingers dig into her thigh. He kisses her where her jaw meets her neck and breathes into her skin that he _would_ like. "I hope you don't mind if Arthur joins us," she adds. It's an excellent game they play. If his mind wasn't so clouded with lust he could better appreciate it.

Gwen pulls away to cast a look at Arthur for the first time. A man of composure held together by a fraying bootlace, Arthur sits with his back to the piano and his ankle crossed over his thigh. His eyes are dark. He looks at Merlin so intensely it's as if he's cracked open and exposed, put on display. Arthur's hand is shaking as he raises his teacup to his lips and takes a sip. 

"The more the merrier," Merlin says. Gwen strokes her thumb down the line of Merlin's jaw.

"Good," she says.

She holds Merlin's hand down over her hip as she slips from the chair, and he's tugged along with her. He ducks his head down for another kiss and she is happy to grant him one.

He is guided to a bedroom, the closest to the parlor. The weight of the _mistake_ he's willfully making settles deep in his bones but Guinevere is pulling him down and her lips are on his neck and she's scraping his skin with her teeth and he can't feel it, not at all, and he's unbuttoning her collar and letting the backs of his fingers brush her chest.

He doesn't see Arthur until he's on him, pressing his hand flat to Merlin's side, his breath on the back of his neck, his voice low when he asks, "Is this alright?"

Merlin may collapse yet.

"Yes," he croaks, trying not to betray how enthusiastically he wishes to agree. Arthur kisses the back of his neck, a frustratingly chaste brush of the lips. Merlin grits his teeth as Gwen sucks a dark mark just to the side of his adam's apple. His hands fumble with her buttons. Arthur's hand is trailing lower to the front of his trousers where the fabric is tightest and he's pressing open mouthed kisses up his neck to his jaw and if ever there was a time to need to multitask, it shouldn't be thrust upon him now. Arthur palms his hardened length and he bucks his hips forward with a curling moan. It's not enough to provide relief, and even as Arthur strokes him through his trousers it only lends to build on that teasing, aching pleasure that heats him into his chest and stomach.

His hands are trembling as he unbuttons Guinevere's shirt down to the belt at her waist. She aids him then, at least, and pulls her shirt free from her skirt and off her shoulders. She undoes her belt and her skirt loosens around her hips. The garment falls to the floor to be forgotten and she is left in her chemise and corset.

It's his turn next, and Gwen makes quick work of it. She unbuttons his shirt and Arthur slips it from his arms. She kisses down his sternum, his stomach, his hip just to the side of where dark hair trails to his navel, until she's on her knees before him. Gwen looks up at him as she rubs her hands up and down his thighs. He nods. Arthur opens his trousers, and Guinevere hooks her fingers into the waistband of his trousers and pants and pulls them both down.

His moans as he's laid bare, finally freed from his clothing. He stands erect, flushed and drooling at the tip, and his length twitches when Gwen presses her thumb to the junction of his hip and thigh. 

"Oh, _Merlin,_ " she breathes, making him shiver with the effort it takes not to jut his hips forward. When he cannot keep himself still, Arthur does so for him with a bruising grip. Pressed to his front, Merlin can feel Arthur hard and hot against him. His eyelids flutter shut. "You're gorgeous," she whispers.

His responding whine is a result of her tongue on the underside of his shaft and Arthur taking his earlobe between his teeth.

His head falls back against Arthur as she takes his tip into her mouth and presses her tongue to the slit. She takes him down halfway, hollows her cheeks, and rises up once more. The air is punched from his chest. He pets her hair in reverence, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, gasping clipped praises.

Arthur takes his jaw in hand and turns his head to kiss him, rough and messy in how he bites his lips. He squeezes his throat just tight enough to make Merlin groan for want of thrusting into the tight heat around him. It's a jarring difference between how Gwen takes her time between his legs, her fingers long and soft when they trace the thick vein under his sensitive skin and her mouth firm and decadent.

He's positively wrecked by the time Gwen decides to remove herself from him. He's a throbbing, moaning mess, his thoughts hazy and his lips swollen. She presses her wet lips to his hip in a slippery kiss as he catches his breath. He's shuddering on the comedown and he hasn't even reached his peak yet. Arthur skims his fingers over his belly, through the dark curls just above his base, and Merlin whimpers.

"I don't think he's going to last long," Arthur says, his teasing words thrown by how thick they are with lust. The tone itself has Merlin biting his lip and curling his toes. "Do you think he's ready?" Guinevere presses the flat of her tongue to the pulse on his inner thigh, her fingers digging into his skin. She drags her lips up to his hip and nods.

"Get him to the bed," she says, and Arthur doesn't hesitate to obey. He guides Merlin none too gently to the mattress. Merlin leans back on his elbows as he crawls backward. Arthur slots himself between his legs and smooths his hand up his body from his thigh to his chest as he follows. He grinds down, and Merlin can't decide on whether to focus on the cloth of his trousers or how thick he feels between them or how Arthur groans, deep and growling.

Arthur bites the inside of his knee before he retreats altogether. He moves to help Guinevere undress, muttering something against her ear as he loosens the laces of her corset. She grins and turns her head to kiss him. He hums, and presses in with vigor, and Merlin bites his lip as he wonders if Arthur can taste him.

When Gwen is left in her chemise they join him in bed, though Arthur remains fully clothed aside from a handful of undone buttons down his chest. He sits up against the headboard and pulls Merlin to him, back to chest, diligently sucking a dark mark to his shoulder. He wraps his fingers loosely around Merlin's shaft and strokes in slow, lazy motions. He ruts against him in the same fashion. Merlin bites his tongue, pleasured sighs wringing out of his throat. Every time he rocks his hips up into Arthur's touch, he stills. It's utterly maddening. He hopes it never stops.

Gwen hitches up her chemise to sit in Merlin's lap. She's so close to his need, her bare skin a beautiful kind of torture. She takes one of his hands and guides it between her legs. He taps his knuckles against her warm thighs. Guinevere leans forward to kiss him and lets him touch her. He moans from somewhere deep in his chest.

It's like dipping his fingers into a jar of oil. She's so wet the hair around her folds is damp with it. He glides his middle finger through it, lets it slicken his path over the bundle of nerves at her crown. She jerks, her hand coming to Merlin's shoulder for balance. He rubs circles over the sensitive skin until she's positively grinding against his hand, her eyebrows worried together, long whines sounding behind her pressed together lips. He kisses her chin and holds her hip still as he moves back down. He traces around her entrance and, upon her encouraging nod, presses in.

If her mouth is velvet, this is silk, soft and warm around him as he pushes in to the knuckle. She sighs, her breath twisting as his finger curls inside. He drags in and out in time with Arthur's strokes, mesmerized by how she twitches. When he adds a second finger with ease her moan lowers into her throat in a way that makes his hips roll upward.

It's a carnal, jerking motion they find themselves in, breathing light and moaning deep, the couple peppering Merlin with kisses as they rock against him.

"Please," Gwen says, her thighs tightening around Merlin's legs, "I need you, oh, god--" She bites her lip and whines. Arthur squeezes him, his thumb passing over the head of his length, and a shiver shakes him from his stomach to his knees.

"Okay," he nods, taking a breath, "okay," and he withdraws from her. Arthur takes him by the wrist. He brings Merlin's hand to his mouth and closes his lips around the digits that were just inside Guinevere. Merlin watches from over his shoulder, eyes wide and painfully aroused as Arthur passes his tongue between the creases of his fingers. Merlin whimpers. He rolls his hips down in Arthur's lap.

Arthur nips his finger before he releases him. Merlin tilts his head to kiss him and takes himself in hand to steady his length where Guinevere kneels over him.

Guinevere reaches between her legs so she knows where he is as she lowers herself. She lets out a sharp breath through her nose as the blunt tip enters. She sinks a quarter, half-way, and with her eyelids fluttering, her hips meet his. It's met with groans from them both. Merlin leans into Arthur's chest as he rubs up her thigh, over her hip, and back down again. He gives a tentative, rocking thrust, and Guinevere's jaw drops open. She clutches his sides.

"Merlin," she says in a halting moan, and grinds down. "I have to-- _we_ have to tell you--" Her brow furrows before she can continue, and she twitches around him.

"I know," he says, and squeezes her hip.

"What?" She looks over his shoulder to Arthur before her eyes flick back to him. "How?"

"You're not subtle," he laughs, which isn't a lie.

"Do you-- would you, mind, if we…" She stares intently at his throat. His head spins. He can't agree to this. He shouldn't. It's a terrible idea.

Good god, he's never wanted anything more.

"It doesn't hurt," Arthur pitches in, stroking up and down his upper arm. "Not even a pinch." Merlin sighs through his nose. Certainly, that's a lie, but would he truly _mind_ if that were so? There's a dangerous little voice in him that says he may even enjoy it. He swallows, dry in his throat.

"And if I said no?"

"If we intended to take you whether you liked it or not, would we really bother asking?" Her eyes are so steady and truthful he can't breathe. He tips forward. Presses a light kiss to her lips. She cradles his face in her hands like he's something fragile. To her, he is. "We'll never do anything against your wishes, Merlin."

And there's that stirring hatred again, in the back of his mind. Could they not make this easy?

"Then I'm sure it will be fine," he says. Gwen smiles and kisses him once more. Arthur's nose bumps against the back of his neck. He holds onto them both, a hand on Gwen's wrist and one on Arthur's hip.

Gwen kisses down his jaw, down his neck. She rocks her hips and they both sigh.

"Are you certain?"

A laugh bubbles from his chest. Not remotely.

"Absolutely."

There's a tight pressure in his neck, enough to make his fingers curl and his face scrunch, and then a release so sudden he's thrusting his hips hard and almost bucking Guinevere from his lap. He moans, the sound starting tense in his throat and dropping slow from his mouth. It's like a hit of opium. It's worse. It's better. 

Gwen raises her hips and drops back down and he's drowning, rocking up to meet her, gasping for air. She’s hot and slick and perfect around him, unmatched and exquisite. He aims another forceful thrust and she moans into his neck, grabbing at his arm to steady herself. Arthur is a warm presence behind him, still holding him close, but doing no more than marking his shoulder with love bites.

"Well?" Merlin asks, his polite facade slipping with the pleasure that's seeped into him like honey in a measure of thread. He gasps, bites back a moan, doesn't pause his rhythm into Guinevere. "What are you waiting for?"

Arthur groans. The moment before his teeth sink into Merlin's flesh is met with a muttered, "Minx."

There's that pressure again, that sharp release. It builds on what was already there and he _sobs_ this time, fucking up almost helplessly as his nerves sizzle and drip. He's so hard it aches even with the press and slide of Guinevere in his lap. His eyes roll back behind his fluttering eyelids. He grips Gwen by the hips and brings her down into each hard thrust, wanting to be deeper and deeper. Her moans vibrate against his skin. 

One of her hands has dropped from his side to touch herself, rubbing rapid circles against her crown, and he bats it away to replace it with his own. Her mouth drops from his neck so she can gasp, and her legs spread pointlessly wider, and she’s tightening around him with a tense whine. She shudders over him, holding onto a handful of Arthur’s shirt as she reaches her peak and grinds down in Merlin’s lap.

“Oh, god,” she breathes, biting a second time on his shoulder as she goes pliant inside, her aftershocks twitching hard around him. Merlin moans, tilting his head to press kisses to her hairline as he continues to fuck her through her oversensitivity. He’s starting to go light headed, his eyes sluggish when they watch Guinevere’s rolling hips. There’s a trickle of warmth that’s rolling down his chest, and he isn’t sure if he wants to know if it’s sweat or blood.

Then Arthur bites down harder, _too_ hard, and the first snap of pain burns through his veins and his thighs are tensing and his back is bowing and he’s holding Gwen tight to him, grinding erratic and deep inside her, as he comes harder than he ever has in his life. A keen slithers out from his clenched teeth. His ears ring and spots of white dot his vision. Behind him Arthur moans from deep in his throat, and he rocks against Merlin only thrice more before he’s tensing into stillness as well.

Merlin’s head falls back. The pleasure of their bites still hangs over him like a blanket and he whines, he aches, and he bites his lip as he carries on thrusting into Guinevere, unable to stop, the pleasure inside him begging for an outlet. He lets out a choked noise as he comes a second time, his chest numb and the tension between his hips giving way to a throb and twitch. His head swims.

“God, Merlin,” Arthur says from behind him, his lips sticky when he kisses his shoulder. “Merlin?”

Merlin can only moan weakly, his breath coming in pants. The white spots over his eyes have faded to black and aren’t leaving. His stomach swoops out from under him and he leans his full weight into Arthur’s chest.

“Oh, dear,” Guinevere says. She rises from his lap, and he wants to protest but finds himself without the energy to do so. “I think we’ve been a little overzealous, darling.”

“Have we now?” Arthur asks with sarcastic intrigue, receiving a glare from over Merlin’s shoulder by Gwen. Merlin licks his lips. His mouth is dry as a bone. 

“Baby, be careful, he’s going to--”

Merlin faints.

  
  


He wakes in bed between the couple, Arthur on his left and Guinevere on his right. His stomach is twisted into a hundred different knots. He blinks hard. They’re both asleep. They’re intertwined with him, their arms over his stomach and their legs tangled with his, but he could free himself if he tried. He licks his lips and gingerly lifts Arthur’s arm off his chest by his wrist, propping himself up on his elbow as he does.

A wave of nausea comes over him like the yanking current of a riptide. The blood drains from his face, he swallows back a gag, and his entire body shudders. His head spins and for a moment he fears he’ll faint again. Gwen stirs beside him and he grits his teeth.

"Don't sit up just yet," she says, pushing him back down with a splayed hand on his chest and waking Arthur in the process. Merlin is far too tired to rise a second time and finds his rebellion instead by staring up at the ceiling. Arthur has started to stroke up and down his side with the backs of his fingers. It's meant to be a comfort, maybe, but it only succeeds in making him hard.

"What…" his brain is too liquid for words. He’s never felt like this before, so weak and pliant. A strike of anxiety makes his heart race as he cobbles his thoughts together enough to find the word he’s searching for: _helpless_. He squeezes his eyes shut. “What did you...?”

“Do to you?” Arthur finishes. Merlin nods. Arthur props his head up on his hand. “An unfortunate side effect,” he says. “Unintentional, I hope you’ll understand. We got a little carried away.” He traces his finger up his jaw and taps his chin. “We haven’t had someone like you in some time. It was a little… overwhelming, you could say.”

A little laugh works its way from his throat as he considers the idea that _they_ were overwhelmed.

“Usually we’re better at pacing ourselves. I’m sorry, Merlin,” Gwen says, her hands clasped over his shoulder and her chin resting on her knuckles. She sighs through her nose, the sound almost a moan, and Merlin has to bite his tongue. She lowers one hand down his chest, down his stomach, down to his hips, stroking idle circles just inches from his rapidly hardening length. “Would you let us make it up to you?”

“I don’t think I could--”

“We don’t wish to feed,” Gwen says. She leans forward and kisses his jaw. “We just want to make you feel better.” Merlin turns his head to catch her lips. As he does, Arthur lowers his head to press an open mouthed kiss to his neck. Just the memory has him moaning and shifting his hips. Arthur reaches down and runs his hand down Merlin’s hip, taking his inner thigh in his hand and squeezing. Guinevere brushes his hair from his eyes. “Let us take care of you.”

“God, please,” Merlin whimpers, and nips Guinevere’s lower lip. Then Arthur is gone, and the bed is dipping with his weight as he moves down the mattress, and he’s spreading Merlin’s legs with gentle hands.

Arthur takes him into his mouth, and Merlin forgets why he ever needed to leave the bed.

  
  


Merlin regains his strength by midday, but remains trapped in bed as he’s traded kisses with sips of wine and bites of pastry. They take him apart and put him back together again over and over, building him up with featherlight touches and whispered affections just to knock it all down with wandering mouths and firm fingers.

Night comes, and they allow him rest. He falls asleep between them, sated beyond reason. Their hands are clasped over his stomach. Like lovers.

Like the lock of a cage.

  
  


He doesn’t know how many times they've done this. His thoughts are too muddy to care. He reaches behind him to take a fistful of Arthur’s hair, a wretched moan sounding from within him as it drives Arthur to thrust into him even harder. Arthur tips his head back from under his chin and licks up his neck, pressing hard over bruising bite marks. Merlin moans miserably, the touch a mere tease, wanting what Arthur will not give him. 

Guinevere watches from her place kneeling between Merlin’s legs. She pleasures him with sure strokes of her fist, squeezing gently when she reaches the base, tracing her thumb under the head and passing over. It’s so much, but it’s not enough. If he had the mind to say anything at all he would make a joke about playing with their food. As it is, all he can do is writhe between them and plead through groans.

Guinevere kisses the inside of his thigh. Her teeth scrape his skin. She bites down where his flesh is so sensitive and flushed, and he comes with a broken howl.

  
  


He needs to get out. He needs to accept that he can’t do this and save himself before that becomes impossible. Merlin presses his hand to his head. It’s hard to think, unless it’s of the slope of Guinevere’s breasts or the muscles of Arthur’s back or their long, sure fingers that they use to push and pull and pry him apart.

Merlin traces his finger down the spine of _Dracula._ A rather tasteless addition to their library, but then again he was never one to find comedy in irony. They don’t suspect him yet, he doesn’t think. He’s given them no reason to. No one in their right mind would allow them so close if they had an ulterior motive.

Just more proof that he’s gone insane.

Merlin steps out from the rows of books. He creeps toward the door. Guinevere followed him in, though she went in her different direction, and he does not know if she’s yet left. They do that - linger around him. Like they’re waiting for their hunger to strike. Or to stop him from running.

She grabs his wrist and he startles.

“Woah there,” she says with a smile. His own is weak in return. She tugs him closer. She raises their hands over his head and he bends at the knee to duck under her arm in a spin. He has to remind himself not to be so playful. He bites his tongue. “Where are you off to?”

“I was off to take a bath,” he says, and lets her pull him down for a kiss by the collar of his shirt.

“Could you use company?” She asks against his lips. He hums at the thought. Warm water, soap on her skin, sweat and steam glistening on her collar bones. He kisses the corner of her mouth.

“Actually, I was-- I was hoping for some time alone,” he says. He reaches up to rest his hand on her neck before he can stop himself. She’s intoxicating this close.

“What a shame,” she says, looking up at him through her eyelashes. His breath stutters. “I was hoping to spend some time with _you_ alone.” He’s drawing her closer with a hand on her waist and her hand is on his shoulder, pulling him in. Surely he can spare the time for one last round. He kisses down her jaw, takes her skin between his teeth to make her gasp. She buries her hand in his hair. She backs against a bookshelf and starts to draw up her skirt. He lets her urge him down, looking up at Guinevere as he sinks to his knees before her.

He lifts her leg over her shoulder as he brushes the backs of his fingers across the seam of her folds. Merlin drags his tongue up from her thigh to the junction of her hip. She sighs, sinks into his touch, and a moan settles in her chest when he spreads her lips with his thumbs and meets her with the flat of his tongue. He licks up to her crown. His lips close around the ball of nerves and he sucks. Her heel digs into his back and pulls him in closer as she lets out a strangled moan. He moans against her in turn, his trousers tight, and he has to shift his hips and squeeze himself through the fabric to remain comfortable. 

He rests one hand under her leg, squeezing the back of her thigh, as he moves back down. He circles his tongue around her entrance before he presses in, that silk its own kind of ecstasy as he pushes as deep as he can get. He draws in and out, the sound filthy as he sucks and adds two fingers to join his tongue. Guinevere shakes over him, every breath a moan, holding onto the wood behind her with a white knuckle grip. 

Merlin trails open mouthed kisses back up to her crown. He rubs his tongue against her, his fingers picking up their pace, curling and retreating and pushing in to the knuckle and repeating. He sucks on that bundle of nerves as he curls his fingers towards himself and presses hard inside, and Gwen sucks in a gasp as her orgasm takes her by surprise. Her shoulders hunch and she reaches down, rakes her nails up the fabric of his shirt, grinding on his fingers and his mouth until the pleasure passes over.

He pulls away. A line of spit is making its way down his chin, and he wipes it away with the cuff of his sleeve. He breathes heavy, eyes glazed, need like a hot coal within him, and tugs her skirt back down for her. She blinks.

“What about you?” She asks as she watches him rise, reaching out for his arm. Merlin adjusts himself in his trousers and wipes his hand on the leg.

“Maybe when I’m finished,” he says gently, and manages to detach her hand from him. He tucks her hair behind her ear, twisting a curl around his finger, his thumb on the swell of her jaw. She looks up at him with wide eyes, almost shocked, almost _irritated_ , before her expression closes into something kind once more.

“Of course,” she says, her smile tight lipped. She cups his cheek and presses a chaste kiss to his lips. 

She bites her thumbnail as she watches him leave, her eyes dark and bizarrely troubled.

He hurries up to the stairs to his bedroom. He needs to get his bag. He would bolt out the front door with no pretense, but his experience reminds him not to leave anything behind. Make it safer for the ones that come after.

Merlin looks over his shoulder to the hallway behind him, and to the stained glass that looks over him on his other side. He shakes his head, clenches his teeth, and yanks the door open.

And finds Arthur, sitting at his desk with his feet propped up on the wood and crossed at the ankles. His bag is on the desk, as is an open box of chocolates. He leans back leisurely in the chair as he reads Merlin’s letter. In his other hand, he twirls a wooden stake.

Merlin’s heart slings from his throat to his knees.

“Oh, Merlin,” Arthur says conversationally, and tosses the letter onto the desk. “I was just thinking about you.”

“What’s that?” Merlin asks, his mind running at a hundred miles an hour as it tries to think of ways he’ll get out of this alive. Arthur looks at him evenly.

“Come on now, Merlin,” he tuts. Merlin stares back for a long moment before he deflates. He pushes his hand through his hair and curses at the ceiling. It’s not like it was ever going well, but he was at least hoping it wouldn’t get worse.

“Fine. You caught me,” he says, his voice dry and lacking the gentle innocence it held before. Arthur’s eyebrows raise when he tucks his hand in his pocket. "What now? You'll kill me?"

"I think that was supposed to be your job," Arthur says, and points the stake at him. He swings up to stand. Merlin presses his lips together. He could make a run for it. He could make it to a window or even the front door, if he was clever. And he _is_ clever. "I'm surprised at you. I really thought you were just an idiot." Merlin glowers.

"How did you know to look through my things, then?"

" _I_ didn't," Arthur clarifies. He's coming closer with every step. Merlin reaches behind him for the doorknob, his heart pounding. "It was Guinevere's idea. She was to keep you occupied while I searched your bag. I thought it was a load of rubbish, but," he inspects the stake, a round beam of white oak that Merlin sharpened and polished himself, "I do tend to find she's a touch smarter than I am."

"Clearly," Merlin says. His shoulder blades are pressed to the door now. He only needs to turn the handle to make his escape. Arthur is so close Merlin can smell his aftershave, and the dark chocolates on his breath. Arthur puts his hand over Merlin's on the doorknob. He squeezes until it hurts.

"You're not very good at this, whatever it is," Arthur says. He glances down at Merlin's lips for a fraction of a second before he looks back up to his eyes. "I hope you don't mind that I'm not exactly terrified." Merlin rolls his eyes and looks away to a very uninteresting lamp.

"You know I'm the best. You read the letter, didn't you?" Arthur snorts.

"You were just waiting for your moment then?" He asks. Merlin doesn't know why he nods. Maybe he isn't as clever as he thought. Arthur turns the stake so that the sharpened end is pointed at his own chest. He urges Merlin to take it. Merlin does so with halting confusion, his hand on top of Arthur's. "Here's your chance, Merlin. Go ahead." He leans forward. The sharp tip creases the cotton of his shirt. Merlin flexes his fingers over Arthur's. "Kill me, right now. Come on." Merlin's heart races under his skin. This was the answer to all of his problems right here. Arthur is clearly a fool himself, testing him like this, as if he didn't read in clear writing how Merlin has done this countless times. Arthur quirks an eyebrow in expectation. "I'm waiting," he says.

In a solid move he wrenches his hand free from Arthur's at the doorknob. Arthur is surprised enough that there isn't much of a struggle when he forces Arthur's arm to bend and shoves him back with the tip of his stake. They pivot. Arthur is pressed up against the wall. Merlin pins him with his forearm on his throat and his knee between his thighs.

"I could do it," he hisses from between his teeth, and the sharp point of the stake digs in. "One little push, one well aimed blow between the ribs, and you're _dust_." Arthur is wide eyed, pale faced, and so hard against Merlin's leg it must be painful. He stares down at the stake undoubtedly cutting into his skin.

"You've really killed before?" He asks, a smile twitching at his cheeks. 

"Take a guess," he answers in a dangerous monotone. Arthur exhales a trembling sigh. He writhes under Merlin's grip.

"So have I," he says. "I suppose that's the one thing we have in common."

"No. You've killed people." He looks Arthur up and down. "I kill monsters." Arthur chuckles lightly. Gives him that lopsided grin.

"You think I'm a monster, Merlin?" He asks. Merlin grits his teeth and shoves Arthur harder into the wall.

"Your kind killed my father. He was mutilated beyond recognition," he says. Arthur rests one hand steady on his bicep. He squeezes the muscle under his fingers.

"Troubling," he says, "but that doesn't answer my question."

Merlin's fingers curl in Arthur's shirt. He looks down at Arthur's lips. His breath is shallow. Whatever sense he has left is trying in vain to get through to him, to tell him this is wrong, that he needs to stop. That there's something seriously wrong with him. His nostrils flare.

They come together in an uncoordinated clash of teeth and bruising lips.

He rocks his leg up between Arthur's legs in the same moment their lips meet. Despite, or possibly encouraged by, the deadly weapon pressing against his skin, Arthur reaches up and holds him in place with a hand on the back of his neck. He sucks on Merlin's tongue, moaning at the lingering taste of Guinevere in his mouth, and shamelessly rubs against Merlin's thigh, and Merlin shoves himself forward to get impossibly closer.

He doesn't know how it happens, but one moment they're grinding against the wall and the next they've lost their footing and have slipped onto the floor. Merlin's lips slide over Arthur's cheek and make their home just under his ear. The men shove and yank and Merlin has unbuttoned Arthur's trousers and Arthur has unbuttoned his and their hard lengths are pressed together between their fists. Arthur is hot in his hand, and impossibly slick, and Merlin can't help but laugh as he thrusts his hips forward.

"Should've shown this side of you sooner," Arthur croaks, hooking a leg around Merlin's waist and rocking his hips. That pit of heat in his stomach twists at his tone. He presses Arthur’s knee up to his chest as he ruts down against him.

"I could say the same about you," Merlin says, his breath starting to come in pants. Arthur is bumped up into the wall with every thrust, his eyebrows worried together and his lips parted. Merlin drops the stake with a clatter and slips his thumb between his teeth. Arthur lets out a strained whimper. He bites down on Merlin's finger and presses his tongue against the pad. His canines, already sharp, extend. They drip something clear and thick onto his lower lip. 

Merlin watches with intrigue. His rhythm slows. Arthur forcibly rocks his hips upward and glares, but Merlin pays him no mind. He pulls his thumb from Arthur's mouth. He tugs down on Arthur's lip as he goes, his thumb sliding over the clear liquid. He licks it away. It tastes of something unpalatably sweet.

His hips jerk forward of their own volition and he gasps as a sudden wave of pleasure sweeps his brain away, and he grabs onto Arthur for support as a shiver racks his body.

Arthur has the gall to laugh, head tipping back against the wall, as if he has any room to be prideful with his face flushed and his eyes glazed and his need drooling over their hands. Merlin squeezes, and it quiets him.

The hum of arousal lingers heavy in the back of his mind as he begins to move again. It makes him unfocused, and desperate, and Arthur takes advantage of it to regain control. He pushes off from the wall with his hand and Merlin is keeling backwards and his back is hitting the floor with a _thud_ and a whining moan. He straddles Merlin's lap, rolling his hips, stroking them both in time. He leans forward so his lips brush Merlin's ear.

"I have a secret to tell you," he says, and twists his wrist between them. He takes a handful of his hair in a painfully tight grip, effectively pinning his head to the hardwood. Merlin fists his shirt and groans. "We've been doing this since before your grandfather's grandfather was born," he whispers, a level confidence in his words that makes Merlin squirm, "and we will _be_ doing this after your grandchildren's grandchildren have died grey and old. And there is nothing," his breath shakes as he edges nearer and nearer to his peak, "that you can do about it."

And Merlin is coming, pulled taut like a string, the twisted tension slipping from his face as his jaw goes slack. He whimpers when Arthur grunts and twitches over him, spilling over his hand and Merlin's shirt.

For a moment, they catch their breath. Arthur's thighs are warm bracketed around his waist and the floor is cold on his back. Then Arthur is shoving Merlin away and tucking himself into his trousers and rising to stand. There's the rustling and crinkling of paper and Merlin's bag is being thrown onto his chest. He gives an exaggerated wheeze when it hits him. He reaches inside and takes out the neckerchief that used to be wrapped around his stake. He wipes it down the front of his stained shirt.

"I want you out of my house," Arthur says. When Merlin fixes himself in his trousers and looks up at him, he's leaning on the edge of the desk with his arms crossed over his chest. Merlin sits up, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Are you going to tell Guinevere?" He asks.

"No," Arthur says. "You're going to make up some lie about needing to leave, and I'm going to tell her that I didn't find anything." Merlin curls his lip.

"You're protecting her?"

"I'm protecting you," he answers shortly. "You have the wrong idea of who's the less forgiving between us, Merlin. Be grateful you haven’t learned the hard way." He crosses the room and opens the door for him. Merlin rises with a grunt and brushes off the seat of his pants. He passes Arthur through the doorway, then hesitates and turns.

"You're dead, officially," he says, careful to keep his voice low. He looks down and back up again. "I killed you. Don't stir up any more trouble, and we'll leave you alone." Arthur's lips twitch together. He nods, but says nothing.

Merlin trots down the stairs, an odd feeling between his eyes. He thought he would fight his way out at the cost of Arthur and Guinevere’s lives, or nearly his own. The last outcome he could have imagined was Arthur following him to the door at a distance, no harm done to his body save the bite marks on his skin that still ache.

"Are you leaving?" Guinevere asks him as he's pulling on his shoes. She glances up to the stairs where Arthur stands, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion. Arthur shrugs, nonchalant.

"Afraid so," he says through a strained smile. "My mother must be sick with worry by now."

"Oh," she says. She laces her fingers together and twists her hands. "That's quite a long way to walk, Merlin. Why don't we send word for you? Tell her you're safe?"

Between Arthur's glares and his threats of Guinevere's wrath, Merlin decides that would be the biggest lie yet. He tries to chuckle in a good natured, not itching-to-run way.

"I think she'd rather see me in person," he says. He ducks his head and kisses her when she prompts him for it, a slow exchange of lips and tongue that has him regretting not taking her up on finishing their last round.

"You could always come back," she says, petting her hand down his arm, "after." And wouldn't that be something. He's starting to truly appreciate her ability to manipulate him. One word from her and Merlin bends to her will like an acolyte, and it's as if it were his own idea to do so.

He can feel Arthur's eyes burning him without ever having to look.

"Let him go, my love," Arthur says, his voice gentle when addressing his wife. He steps down the stairs. He passes them both to take Merlin's coat from the rack. "We've kept him long enough."

"Thank you," he mutters, when his coat is deposited into his hands. He rubs his thumb around and around a button. "I'll-- I'll just be going, then."

"Mmhm," Arthur agrees, reaching around him to open the front door. Merlin is all but shoved out onto the porch. So much for subtlety.

The sky is clear and the ground is dry when he leaves the way he came. His boots crunch on the gravel. How long had it been? How many days in that house?

Merlin looks back only once, the moment before he takes a turn in the path that will obscure their mansion from view. The front door is still open. In the sliver of darkness are two faces that watch him go. 

The door shuts, and the first person to leave this house alive disappears behind a wall of trees.

**Author's Note:**

>  _A centum annis transierunt. Ad centum amplius. Tua, Arthur._ = "To one hundred years passed. To one hundred more. Yours, Arthur." 
> 
> i hope you liked it! it was actually a blast to write cause i loved everybody being big fat liars to each other and having their own agendas. plus i like giving gwen the appreciation she deserves for being the real bamf in arwen. it's canon, but i still like to write it
> 
> catch me on tumblr @ [sterlingdylan](https://sterlingdylan.tumblr.com/)


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